If it were me, I know what I’d be thinking. Temporary fuck buddy. She’s leaving. I’m staying. Moving is stressful. And fucking is the best part of dating, so why not do the fucking part and skip the dating? But I’ve been on this earth for thirty-four trips around the sun, two divorces, at least three drinks in my face for voicing my opinion, and enough lectures from my father about how to treat a woman that I don’t say it out loud. Anymore. I don’t say it out loud anymore.
